


Just a Hole in Arizona

by DragoJustine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragoJustine/pseuds/DragoJustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every important thing in Dean's life starts, "When Sam was X and I was Y." </p>
<p>"When Sam was 6 months and I was 4, I carried him out of a fire and everything changed."</p>
<p>"When Sam was 6 and I was 10, I taught him how to ride a bike and bandage a cut."</p>
<p>"When Sam was 12 and I was 16, I taught him how to factor a polynomial and carried him from a ghoul hunt gone horribly wrong." </p>
<p>"When Sam was 16 and I was 20, I let him fuck me for the first time and I thought everything would change, but nothing did."</p>
<p>"When Sam was 22 and I was 26, I carried him out of another fire and breathed again, for the first time in four years."</p>
<p>"When Sam was 25 and I was 29, he carried me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 8 and 12

**Author's Note:**

> spn_holidays present for travesty_ , who requested "The boys go on vacation; no supernatural stuff involved" and also "Domestic Wincest, no fluff." I really, really hope this fits the bill, as it's the longest thing I've ever written outside of school and I'm quite nervous. 
> 
> Thanks to desertport for the fantastic beta. 
> 
> I hope you like it, travesty_ , and I hope you had a fantastic holiday and go on to have a fantastic 2008!

The Oklahoma plain rolled past, smooth and easy. Sam was in the back, reading (dork) and Dean was stretched out shotgun, feeling the thrum of the engine and road-noise beneath them. They were moving, Oklahoma to Arizona, and they had a whole week of vacation before they would start a new term in a new school, and Sam wasn't even bitching about it. Mostly, he wasn't bitching because Dad had promised them they'd spend the vacation camping at the Grand Canyon, and Dean had spent two solid weeks talking up the joys of America's greatest natural wonder to Sam. Sam was now convinced it was going to be absolutely epic, and Dean figured that was okay because it probably would be pretty cool.

Apparently their new place in Arizona was surrounded by ghost-towns, old abandoned mining outposts, full of safe and easy hunts. Enough to keep Dad busy for a whole school term and give Dean his first chance to shoot a spirit, which, yeah, awesome. 

Dad pulled over for gas, some truck stop with a parking lot the size of a football field, 18-wheelers lined up in neat rows between the diner and the little strip of lawn and picnic tables. Dad pumped the gas, then leaned in through the window. "Gonna make a phone call. Sammy, stretch your legs." 

Sam tumbled out the back door and onto the grass on his stomach without peeling his eyes away from the book, but Dean was pretty sure he wasn't pouting, just absorbed, so it was okay. He climbed out and followed Dad to the payphone by the diner's door. 

Dad's conversation with Pastor Jim was quiet and brisk, but Dean caught "is he gonna be okay?" and "found her lair?" and "how many victims?" and Dad looked more and more worried. Dean felt all his quiet open-road happiness knot into a little ball in his stomach, waiting for the verdict. Dad was getting directions, now, and promising to drop the boys off within 48 hours, and just like that the epic camping trip was up in smoke. 

When Dad finally hung up, Dean made his voice carefully neutral and asked, "What's up?" 

"Do you remember Caleb?" 

"Yeah." 

"Well, Pastor Jim pointed him after a harpy, and now he's hurt bad. He’ll be okay, but she’s still out there."

"So we've gotta go." 

"I've gotta go. You and Sam are spending the time with Pastor Jim." 

He was supposed to say "yes, sir" now, supposed to go back to Sam and break the news to him and make sure Sam didn't whine about it. But he couldn't make himself move. 

"What is it?"

"I should go with you. I can watch your back." 

"We've been over this. You'll get your first hunt this year, Dean, just like I promised. One I think is safe to start with." Dad sounded annoyed now, was turning back to the car, and Dean had to fix that because he hadn't understood at all.

"No! Dad, this thing got Caleb-"

Dad turned back to him, his expression unreadable. "She got Caleb, but she won't get me. I won’t let her.”

Dean thought if it was any other hunter, he would have believed that. But he did remember Caleb, and Caleb was as big as Dad and as strong. He remembered Caleb hitting the dead center of every target and pinning Dad to the ground once when they sparred. He made one last, desperate attempt.

“Dad, the trip. It’s my first ever vacation! You promised…” 

That was hitting below the belt and they both knew it. Dean didn’t pull what he thought of as the “good dad” card very often, mostly because of the way it made Dad’s face twist in equal parts guilt and anger at Dean for causing that guilt. It never worked before, and it didn’t work now.

“Enough, Dean.” Dad seemed to be making a conscious effort to soften his voice. “Once we’re set up in Arizona, when Sam’s settled into school. On your first hunt, we’ll stop by the Grand Canyon then. Make it a celebration.” 

Dean figured it wasn’t Dad’s fault he totally missed the point, on a couple of levels, so he just shrugged roughly. “That part doesn’t matter. It was for Sam anyway.” 

Dad looked maybe a little hurt, but he nodded and turned around again, heading back to the car. Dean dropped to the pavement, pretended to tie his shoes while he waited for the tangle of disappointment and fear to unknot inside. Let Dad field Sammy’s questions for once.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------

At Pastor Jim's, Sam sulked and whined and was generally completely insufferable. Dean wasn't sulking-- absolutely not, no sir-- but he had to admit he wasn't trying too terribly hard to keep Sam happy and pleasant either. And that probably wasn't fair to Pastor Jim, but whatever.

In his quest to appease them, Jim finally produced a tent and two sleeping bags and suggested that they go camping after all. Dean's first impulse was to be a smart-ass, because camping at a National Park was possibly justified by cool surroundings, but fake backyard camping was inexcusably lame. But it was obviously the sort of lame Sammy fell for, because Dean couldn't even put together a crack about the stunning landscape of Back Yard, Minnesota, before Sam was deep in highly serious negotiations with Pastor Jim about exactly how far from the house they were allowed to set up and how often they had to check in. Dean figured it was about time to buck up, thanked Jim for the idea, and summoned every last bit of enthusiasm he could muster to help Sam figure out the tent.

That night, with the fire out and completely doused in dirt and the s’more makings safely stowed, Sam herded Dean under the canvas. Dean tried to protest, to convince Sam it was way too early to sleep and maybe get him to catch some fireflies in their empty water bottle, but Sam was insistent. He carefully zipped closed every flap until not even a flicker of light from the road and streetlamps could reach them, and then clicked off the flashlight.

Dean pulled a pretty impressive creepy moan (if he did say so himself) and started groping for another light. But Sam was having none of it.

“Dean, just sit still. I have something for you.” 

“What’s going on?”

“Just wait.” 

There was a fair amount of rustling and Dean felt something laid across his lap. Sam knelt next to Dean, shining the flashlight down over his shoulder, and clicked it on.

Across Dean’s lap lay a National Geographic, folded out to a gorgeous four-page spread of massive red and brown cliffs stretching across the horizon. 

“Isn’t that cool? It’s almost like being there. Just imagine you unzipped that flap and that’s what you saw.”

Sam paused, but Dean was frozen into stillness, afraid to disturb the spell the shaking circle of light made on his lap. Sam started talking again, uncertainly.

“There’s a- there’s a whole article, there, about fossils and stuff. It’s interesting. And other pictures, if you want, like fossils and some modern animals and one of the Indian tribes that live there.”

Sam was reaching down, fumbling to turn the page, but Dean caught his wrist and held it. 

“Why’d you bring this? Where’d you get it?” 

“I told Ms. Shoal I was seeing the Grand Canyon, and she brought it to school for me. I thought it would be a good, y’know, a souvenir. In case Dad wouldn’t let us- I mean, if he said we couldn’t afford something there. It’s better than a postcard, right? That’s all I have money for. Anyway, she said that was a good idea, she gave it to me. It’s not like I stole it or anything, I just thought-”

Dean felt his throat go tight at the desperate eagerness in Sam’s voice. He reached up to steady the flashlight, moving the light over the graceful lines of land. 

“Yeah, Sam. It’s great. Just like being there, that’s awesome.” 

Sam propped the magazine up against the side of the tent, wedged the flashlight with pebbles to hold it steady, and they crawled into their sleeping bags. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s Dad hunting?”

“You know I’m not supposed to tell you this stuff. He’d get mad at me. Anyway he doesn’t want you scared.” 

“He’s my Dad too. Tell me.” 

“It’s a harpy, I think.”

“Those exist?”

“Guess so.” 

There’s a long silence, and Dean was just starting to think it was safe to sleep, when Sam spoke again.

“Dean, I’m gonna take you to the Grand Canyon one day. Just like you wanted.” 

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, geek-boy. Sure you will.” 

“No, I mean it.” Sam propped himself up on his elbow, and his voice rang with intensity.

“We’re not gonna have to do what Dad says forever. That’s not how it works, kids leave their parents. Sooner or later, he won’t be around-”

Dean saw, horribly, the image of huge strong Caleb lying gutted and weak in a hospital bed, the image of their father somewhere fighting off a whirlwind of wings and cruel snatching claws. “Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that!” 

“But it’s true! Kids don’t live with their parents forever! They grow up, and they leave, and that’s how it works. I’ll graduate from school, and you and me, we’ll go away together. Anywhere we want, we’ll go anywhere we want, and then I’ll take you-”

Dean whispered, soft but fierce. “That’s how it works for other people. Not for us.”

Sam fell silent, then, but Dean thought it was a long time before he slept. The next morning, just when the first birds started singing, Dean rolled over and took the burned-out flashlight and the magazine and tucked them in his backpack. Sam didn’t seem to notice.


	2. 15 and 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every important thing in Dean's life starts, "When Sam was X and I was Y." 
> 
> "When Sam was 6 months and I was 4, I carried him out of a fire and everything changed."
> 
> "When Sam was 6 and I was 10, I taught him how to ride a bike and bandage a cut."
> 
> "When Sam was 12 and I was 16, I taught him how to factor a polynomial and carried him from a ghoul hunt gone horribly wrong." 
> 
> "When Sam was 16 and I was 20, I let him fuck me for the first time and I thought everything would change, but nothing did."
> 
> "When Sam was 22 and I was 26, I carried him out of another fire and breathed again, for the first time in four years."
> 
> "When Sam was 25 and I was 29, he carried me."

Dad had found the lair of some kind of troll, tucked in a little greenbelt three hours outside of St. Louis. The thing liked to fight with big wooden clubs, judging from the coroner’s reports, and Dad’s sources said what it needed was a good old fashioned stake-and-decapitate. 

Except apparently the Missouri History Museum was the best museum for three states around, and it currently had a whole wing of Egyptology on loan from the Smithsonian to boot. Dad was determined to finish the troll up tonight and head West tomorrow morning, and Sam wouldn’t shut up about the unfairness of it all. 

Dean finally floated the idea with Dad of maybe, possibly skipping out on just this one hunt to drive Sam up there. Dad gave him a long, level look, and finally said, “That’s your decision.”

He pushed and pushed, trying to get some kind of official permission, but all Dad would say was “I hunted without you for a decade, I can manage one night,” and Dean finally told Sam he would go.   
\------------------------------------------------------

Sam was tireless, dragging him through the entire museum without skipping a single window or plaque. Even Dean had to admit that dinosaurs are pretty much never not cool, but a whole wing dedicated to geology and types of rock? It’s a bit much. 

Dean managed to corner a girl cooing over the antelopes in the Hall of African Mammals. She was maybe 20, redheaded and stacked, and she fiddled with her hair when he smiled at her. They wandered along the displays while Sam read avidly about elephant migration patterns. When they reached the spotted hyenas, she squealed and grabbed his arm.

“They’re so disgusting!” 

Dean squeezed her hand reassuringly, leaned down to whisper in her ear and figured he was in for at least a little fondling in the bathroom. That was when Sam chose to show up.

“Actually, spotted hyenas are highly skilled pack predators. Most often, it’s the lions scavenging kills from them, and not the other way around. Plus, they have incredibly powerful jaws and advanced digestive systems capable of handling their entire prey- hide, hooves, everything. It’s pretty cool.”

The girl gave Sam a doubtful look and hurried over to the hippo. Dean whacked him in the back of the head. 

By the time they got to the crowning glory, the visiting Egyptology exhibit, Dean figured he’d had enough of museums to last until he was at least 50. But Sam was over the moon, going on nonstop about hieroglyphics and afterlife beliefs. Dean finally gave up and camped out by the “Mummies in popular culture” display until Sam had exhausted every snippet of information on Egyptian archaeology. 

On the way back, Sam was fiddling with something, tossing it and bouncing it off the car window. Dean squinted.

“Is that… a mummy beanie-baby?”

Sam grinned like he’d struck gold. “Isn’t it awesome? Museum gift shops are so random.” 

“You freak.”

Dean figured yeah, that was actually pretty cool. 

“You were totally going to drag that girl off to a back hallway somewhere, weren’t you?”

“Absolutely, until you grossed her out.”

“Why?”

Dean blinked. “If you don’t know that, Sammy, you’re still younger than I thought.”

“I’m not stupid. I mean, you’re never going to see her again. So why?”

“That’s completely not the point.”

Sam’s fidgety hands stilled, and the mummy dropped forgotten to the seat. “Shouldn’t it be?”

Dean’s throat went dry. He kept his eyes fixed on the road.

“Seriously. Shouldn’t there be something more than one-nighters and ugly motel rooms? Don’t you ever want--” Sam abruptly grabbed the mummy again, returned to tossing it. “Yeah, I’m being a total girl. Whatever. Tease me later. Just, I want more. For both of us. Why don’t you?”   
\-------------------------------------------------------

When they pulled into the motel lot Dad’s truck was already back. Dean was suddenly conscious of the knot of anxiety he’d been ignoring all day. Sam went straight to their room, but Dean rapped on the door beside it. 

“Dad?”

No answer.

“Dad, you’ve got ten more seconds and then I’m breaking in.”

Dad was sprawled on the bed, still wearing his boots. His upper arm was bandaged, dark with dried blood. Dean’s heart just about stopped, but he shook awake easily enough, and there wasn’t a lump on his head. 

“Dad, Christ, are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine, Dean, I got it stitched up. Go to bed.”

Dean’s hands shook as he unrolled the bandage. It was stitched up, awkwardly and obviously one-handed, and around the back where Dad couldn’t see there was still a crusting of grime and a few splinters. 

“I’m so sorry. I should have…”

“I’m fine. Finish cleaning it up if I missed anything. It’s not your fault, and I’m fine.”

When Dean made it back to their room, Sam was in the bathroom. Resting on Dean’s pillow was the little mummy, and below it was a Grand Canyon postcard obviously from the same museum shop. _Three more years. Leave with me._

Dean carefully wrote _Dad needs us_ below that, and dropped the postcard in the trash by Sam’s bed. 

When Sam opened the bathroom door, he was all gangly arms and glistening skin and dripping hair. Dean shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep, even though they hadn’t been able to fool each other like that in years.


	3. 18 and 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every important thing in Dean's life starts, "When Sam was X and I was Y." 
> 
> "When Sam was 6 months and I was 4, I carried him out of a fire and everything changed."
> 
> "When Sam was 6 and I was 10, I taught him how to ride a bike and bandage a cut."
> 
> "When Sam was 12 and I was 16, I taught him how to factor a polynomial and carried him from a ghoul hunt gone horribly wrong." 
> 
> "When Sam was 16 and I was 20, I let him fuck me for the first time and I thought everything would change, but nothing did."
> 
> "When Sam was 22 and I was 26, I carried him out of another fire and breathed again, for the first time in four years."
> 
> "When Sam was 25 and I was 29, he carried me."

Dad was out of town. Not hunting, or Dean would be there, but digging up old land-survey records at the state university library. Dean had offered to help, but the offer was halfhearted and Dad said he’d have plenty of time to help once they knew what the hell he was helping with. Two days, he’d said. Pay the gas bill, make sure Sam eats. 

Sam hadn’t offered to go, and Dad hadn’t asked. Dean figured that was for the best, since Sam would just insist he couldn’t miss school. So it was a bit of a shock when Sam barged back in not two hours after Dad left, well before his lunch break. Sam kicked his backpack to a corner and flopped on the couch. Within five minutes he was fighting for the remote, interrupting a perfectly good James Bond marathon and making it clear that he was home for the day.

“What the hell happened to ‘I can’t miss school, Dad, it’s important’?”

“Dude, I graduate valedictorian in two months. You think anybody gives a damn if I skip for the first time all semester?” 

“Aw, little Sammy finally admits nobody’ll miss him for a day!”

“Eh, nothing important happening today. And I am NOT spending it watching Sean Connery.”

“Well, I think the next one’s a Roger Moore, so if you’d prefer him--”

Sam paused for an exaggerated shudder before rolling Dean off the couch and trying to pin him, and then it was just grappling and twisting and rolling. Dean managed to give Sam a noogie (“Ow! God-damn Dean!) but then Sam managed to blow a raspberry on Dean’s stomach (“What are you, Sam, six?”) and somebody’s flailing leg knocked over a lamp (“That was totally you, Bigfoot”). Then Dean had Sam pinned well enough to open his jeans and mouth his cock, pressing his lips and warm tongue through the slit of Sam’s boxers. That worked pretty well at getting Sam to let go of the remote (“Dean, you little cocktease”). 

By the time Sam had finished paying him back for that, the TV marathon had moved on to Roger Moore anyway. Dean clicked it off, pushed Sam onto the couch, and shoved his knees wide. Sam sat, quivering and jerking, as Dean carefully freed his cock and gave it a long, wet lick. 

Sam whispered to him constantly, a steady stream of encouragement from that filthy mouth of his. Dean let it wash over him and sank languidly into the rhythm of stroking and sucking. 

“God, Dean, that perfect, cocksucking mouth of yours. Gorgeous, like that, on your knees for me.”

Dean was working in earnest now, moving down to cradle Sam’s balls with his tongue and mouth the wrinkled skin there. Sam’s fingers played over his neck and shoulders, moving light and restless, leaving tingling trails in their wake. Dean returned his mouth to Sam’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard as his hand stroked firm and sure. 

“Touch yourself, Dean. Want to see you, see the way you love doing this. See you want me…” 

Dean fumbled his jeans open, fisting himself. He looked up, locking his eyes on Sam’s, and as his hips began to pump in earnest against his hand, Sam cupped his head and shuddered. 

Afterwards, Dean sprawled out on the couch and grabbed the remote again. Sam was limp and boneless and taking up eight damned feet of space, and Dean figured that glazed-eyed, utterly relaxed half-smile on his face was just about the best thing he’d ever seen. 

“So, we’ve got two days till Dad gets back. What did you have in mind, you truant?” 

“Huh?” 

Dean chuckled and kept flipping channels.

“Nothing in particular. You know, just… a vacation.”

“A vacation?”

“Yeah. Like, whatever you’ve wanted to do in this town, for fun. There’s gotta be something.”

“Not really.”

“Okay, well, there’s that thing down at the fairgrounds. I figure maybe we go and win a lot of crap at the little shooting range?” 

“Yeah, that sounds like just a barrel of monkeys.” 

“It’s a fair. There’s cotton candy.”

“I’m in.” 

Sam laughed, deep and genuine. “You’re so easy.”   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning after their elephant ears and cotton candy excursion, Sam was trying so hard to ignore the phone that by the third call he might as well have put up a neon sign. 

Dean threw it at his head.

"Sam! There's this thing, it makes this annoying noise and that means your geek-friends want to talk to you!"

"It's nothing. I just said I'd go to this game, they'll give up soon."

"Well then, go to the game. Sounds like they're dying for the pleasure of your company. Why the hell not?"

"Dean, us. You, me, vacation, remember?" and that was halfway between the "how are you such an idiot" voice and the "innocence abused" voice, but Dean wasn't interested in the charity that second one implied. 

"Man, go to the game. That crazy-ass friend of yours pitching? It'll be great, eat some peanuts for me."

Sam’s jaw tightened in anger, and that was just not on. 

"Sam. Seriously. You know we're laying down rubber the instant you get your diploma, and you haven't even bitched about it once. Two months, you're gonna have all the vacation you can deal with. World's biggest ball of twine, Grand Canyon, dorky history museum central, you name it. Just... go see your friends." 

And that was about the most magnanimous concession speech Dean had ever managed, every ounce of "I'm sorry we're gonna move again" and "Thanks for not bitching at Dad about it, thanks for being so cool this last year" and "You and me, forever man, you never have to worry about that" that he could possibly muster. Which was why it was so intensely, monumentally unfair that Sam gave him an utterly unreadable look and just said, "Yeah. Guess so." 

And despite the blankness in his look and flat tone of his voice, Dean knew Sam was still pissed when he walked out, carefully not slamming the door behind him.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------

When Sam wasn't in hunting mode- which was most of the time, these days-- he tended to walk like an elephant, or maybe a whole herd of elephants. Dean didn't even have to listen to hear the whole story play out at the front door, without stepping out of the kitchen to look. 

Rattling of keys. 

Heavy thumping and scuffing, that would be baseball diamond mud on his boots. 

One heavy, clomping, still pissed-off step.

And then-- the sudden silence as Sam stopped dead. 

Gentle click as the door swung shut on its own, instead of being pushed. A light, muffled thud as his jacket slipped to the floor. Time for two deep breaths.

Footsteps, not remotely pissed-off anymore.

Yes, Dean reflected, the smell of freshly-baked lasagna does interesting things to a man. Possibly more so if that man grew two inches in the last nine months alone. 

"You cooked?"

"Yup."

"No, really. You cooked." 

"Heard you the first time."

Sam didn't want to grin, but something a whole lot like a grin was showing up anyway. It's great to watch, Dean thought, the part of him that's trying to remember to be pissed warring against the part that just wants to light up like Christmas lights, and losing the battle one tooth and dimple at a time.

"And you set the table. With place mats. And napkins and crap."

"We're civilized human beings sometimes."

"Aw, Dean, where's my single red rose and mood music?" 

The grin was uncontested now, and Dean loved that Sam's "this is the greatest thing ever" grin was completely indistinguishable from his "I am going to give you so much shit about this" grin, loved that most of the time, it was both. 

"There's no mood music, Samantha. But there is" --and this required a proper showman's flourish, here, as he opened the oven and watched Sam just about fall over as the smell hit him-- "garlic bread!" 

Sam didn't collapse right into his chair, didn't fall on the food like the vulture Dean knew he was around food that didn't come in Styrofoam. Instead, he gave Dean an odd look (suspicious, obviously, but if Dean didn't know better he'd call it afraid) and asked, "Why?" 

"Because I wanted to. Eat." 

The question stayed buried until the garlic bread was all gone and Sam was dishing out the second helping of lasagna. Dean set a bottle on the table by his hand, and Sam glanced up quickly through a curtain of bangs.

"Dean, why?"

"Man, you're 18 and Dad's out of town. What the hell did you think you were drinking?" 

Sam opened it (and Dean tried not to watch the way the tendons on the back of his hand stood out briefly, the way the muscle in his forearm tensed) and took one long, deliberate pull. When he spoke, his tone was careful. 

"No, Dean. Why all of this?" 

"Aw man, are you gonna make me do this?" 

Sam took another drink, impassive.

"You're graduating in two months. That's huge! You think I'd do girly shit like this with Dad around? Consider this the early graduation celebration." 

Sam was still watching him with a steady, unsettling gaze, and Dean tried to tear his eyes away only to have them caught on the way Sam's long fingers rested on the neck of his bottle, the way his other hand lay casually on his thigh. 

"Look, Sam. You graduate, it's the first time our lives don't revolve around the school year. We can do anything, go anywhere. And I know you haven't been crazy about stuff, but it doesn't have to be bad. Maybe once in a while we handle jobs ourselves, let Dad take an old-dude break. I know you're gonna miss school, I know you liked geeky crap like that, but you can get a fucking PhD in creature studies just from the books under Caleb's bed, and that's before you even start in on Pastor Jim's minor gods stuff and Bobby's demonology. Now you'll have time for that, if you want. It doesn't have to be bad, Sam, it doesn't have to be war all the time. The two of us, man, we can save people. We don't have to take any crap, we can do good, you could be happy, Sam, I swear to you--" 

Dean was suddenly, acutely aware that he was babbling. Sam hadn't moved an inch, not the fingers around his beer bottle or the hand resting on this thigh. His gaze was still steady and intense, Dean knew, but he couldn't bring himself to meet it. 

Dean wished Sam would move-- brush back his stupid hair, take a drink, something-- because for every moment that he sat there like that this thing grew heavier in the air between them and Dean was aware of every stupid twitch of his hands, every time his gaze shifted with nowhere to rest. 

"You don't know SHIT, Dean." 

Just like that, the spell was broken. Sam was on his feet now, coming around the table, drawn up to his full height and shoulders thrown back. He was yelling now, even as he grabbed Dean by the collar. "You don't understand a GOD DAMNED THING!" 

And Dean didn't know why, didn't understand what had happened, but he knew his role. He knew when he had to simply stand and endure and let Sam's rage crash over him like heavy surf, like he was some kind of fucking retaining wall at the shore. Stand up and stand in its way and take it, protect the town behind. Protect the family. 

Without Dad there, getting slammed from only one side, Dean felt unbalanced. Without the goal of brokering a peace, absorbing enough anger so they could talk to one another again, he didn't have a clue what to do.

But it wasn't until Sam had him shoved back against the kitchen counter, until the hands on his collar were suddenly clutching the back of his neck, that Dean realized he had it all wrong. For all the sound and the fury, for all the towering thunderclouds in Sam's face, the darkness in his eyes wasn't rage. It was desolation.

One of Sam’s hands was leaving bruises on his scalp and the other was pressed flat to the cupboard behind him, closing him in. His kissing was a mess of sharp bites and suction and rough, invasive tongue and Dean was trapped, riding the rough denim of Sam’s thigh shoved between his legs and opening and yielding as Sam’s tongue fucked his mouth.

He didn’t understand a god damned thing and it didn’t matter, because this was what Sam needed now. Every time he stood between Sam and Dad and let their shouts beat against him he felt himself eroding away bit by bit, but this… He opened and took it and let it wash over him and it felt like Sam rebuilding him. 

He was moaning and rutting against the crease of Sam’s hip by the time Sam finally reached for the buttons on his jeans. He tried to help but Sam grabbed him, wrapped that huge hand all the way around his wrist and pressed his palm to the counter with a demanding growl, and all Dean could do was buck against him harder and let his head fall back against the cupboards. 

Sam was sucking savagely on the curve of his shoulder and Dean writhed. He couldn’t seem to make his hands move from where they were pressed flat to the counter, and Sam let his bite mark go with a loud pop and moved up to gasp right over Dean’s ear.

“So good Dean, keep them right there, being so fucking good for me… Have you like this, all spread out and moaning. Dean, I want--”

Then Sam had that huge hand on Dean’s cock, pulling and twisting a little, letting his thumb play over the slit. His other hand was gripping Dean’s hip, his fingernails digging little half-moons in over the bone. He was riding Dean hard now, and the zipper of his jeans pinched and bruised between them. 

Dean wanted to pull Sam’s jeans off, suggest the couch, a bed, do something to quiet the brutal squeeze of Sam’s hands. But the little voice of _what Sam needs, what Sam needs_ kept echoing in his head. Sam was talking again, whispers and filthy growls against his neck. “Just like this, God. Dean, your cock” “take you here, spill over my hand right here,” “hurts, doesn’t it? Should hurt, the two of us.”

Then Sam’s mouth covered his, greedily swallowing his broken moans. Dean arched and spasmed, pressed full-length against Sam and scrabbling at the linoleum. Dimly, he felt Sam’s teeth nip at his lip hard enough to draw out a bead of blood, and Sam gasped out, “ _fuck_ Dean _yes_ like that” as he came.


	4. 20 and 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every important thing in Dean's life starts, "When Sam was X and I was Y." 
> 
> "When Sam was 6 months and I was 4, I carried him out of a fire and everything changed."
> 
> "When Sam was 6 and I was 10, I taught him how to ride a bike and bandage a cut."
> 
> "When Sam was 12 and I was 16, I taught him how to factor a polynomial and carried him from a ghoul hunt gone horribly wrong." 
> 
> "When Sam was 16 and I was 20, I let him fuck me for the first time and I thought everything would change, but nothing did."
> 
> "When Sam was 22 and I was 26, I carried him out of another fire and breathed again, for the first time in four years."
> 
> "When Sam was 25 and I was 29, he carried me."

According to the academic calendar on Stanford's website, final exams for undergraduates had ended at 2 p.m. that day and classes didn't start again until early April. Dad was helping out Caleb with cattle mutilations and a missing farm hand in Montana. There was a non-time-sensitive hunt (read: nobody dropping dead) in Portland, and Dad had said to feel free to take his time getting to the rendezvous. It was code for "stop by Stanford," of course. They hadn't checked on Sam since Dad had swung by four months ago while Dean stayed in a little town in the San Fernando Valley.

Their lives now were scattered with blanks, little empty spaces when one or the other of them could swing by Palo Alto without having to say it explicitly. Never together- always one or the other, because if they both went they would have to put it to words. Dean didn't know exactly what Dad did when he checked on Sam. Asking would be breaking the rules of silence and denial they had built up around the fact of their splintered family. 

This time was different. Different because Caleb's hunt might well take a week or two, and different because Sam was on vacation. Dean grabbed a campus map from Visitor Information and ducked back out before the pretty brunette behind the desk could tell him about guided tours or historic landmarks. He felt himself thumbing the edges of it nervously as he walked up Escondido towards the front entrance of Sam's dorm (or what had been Sam's dorm last August, when the whole place had been happy and relaxed and nearly empty in the way of college campuses in summer). He felt naked without the armor of the Impala around him, as out of place as if he wore a neon sign. 

There was a steady stream of undergrads leaving the dorms, toting duffel bags and suitcases. The whole place was buzzing with energy, leftover exam-adrenaline and shouted plans for wildly drunken spring breaks. These seemed to be the last batch to leave, the unlucky ones with Friday finals. 

It hadn't occurred to Dean until this moment that Sam might not be here. That he might have finished finals two days ago, taken off for Tijuana or wherever the hell, that Dean might look up at an empty window and never be able to verify that Sam was okay. Which would be all right-- would be all right, because that would mean Sam had friends, did normal things on his spring break, was happy. Dean might put his fist through a wall when he got back to the motel... but it would be okay, if Sam wasn't here. He shouldn't be here, in fact, not now that finals were over, and Dean was an idiot for not thinking this through.

Just then, Sam slipped out a side door and cut across the grass toward the center of campus. He was carrying just a laptop bag, tucking a key back into his pocket and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, not meeting anyone's gaze. Dean kept walking only by sheer motor memory, only by ingrained habit, because his legs had gone numb and it felt like the sidewalk had dropped away under him. 

Dean didn't care if Sam headed off to get wildly drunk with those friends he was supposed to have, or if he stayed on campus like the huge geek he was, but he was not, absolutely not, supposed to be wearing a look of unconcealed misery.

He trailed Sam to where the road ended and the pedestrian walks began, a dead straight shot to the doors of the Meyer library. Four hours later, Sam still hadn't come out.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning Dean was there again, sitting in a little courtyard across the street from the dorm, wearing a bright blue windbreaker and baseball cap. The disguise was completely unnecessary, because Sam didn't look right or left as he cut across the eerie deserted dorm lawn. The slim laptop bag was the same, as was the bleak look on his face and the way he headed straight for that library door like it was the only sanctuary in the world. 

Dean pulled out the postcard he'd bought, all tall golden towers and bright blue water and dazzling white city spread out over the hills.

> Dude, dorkface, it's spring break and you're still living in the library? Taught you better than that.
> 
> I'm in town. 

His pen stayed raised above the card for the briefest of moments, but the day Dean Winchester wrote _I'm sorry and I miss you and I can't live without a brother. I came, just tell me how to fix this_ was the day he handed in his shotgun and called himself Deanna. Sam had chosen, Sam had said he had to do what was right for him, Sam had left. And just because Dean felt like every solid thing in the world had turned to sand in his hand- hell, just because Sam himself looked miserable-- didn't give him any right to go laying that kind of guilt. 

Dean sat in the weak spring sunlight until the postman came and went, feeling like his gut was curled around a weight of solid lead. It was trivially easy to fiddle the little mailbox locks open one at a time until he found the slot with the mail for Sam Winchester. 

There was a sheaf of student coupons, something from campus housing services, a credit card offer. There were also two postcards, two different views of the wide expanse of the Grand Canyon.

> Sam,
> 
> Man, it's HUGE. You should totally be here, best random road trip ever. 
> 
> -Chris
> 
> PS. Tomorrow, we're riding donkeys. Seriously. Becky is making us. 

The next one was completely covered in girlish handwriting so neat and so small Dean found himself squinting.

> Sam - Just pulled in, it's huge, very cool. Everybody talking about you, miss you, wish you were here, yadda yadda.
> 
> The local tribe holds this little cultural exhibition/dance thing, we're gonna go see it tomorrow. Plus, they do a storytime for kids, and I'll bet it's completely the type of folklore/mythology you would love. Maybe I'll see if I can tape record it for you?
> 
> Look, Sam, he would come like a shot if you picked up the phone. You don't think so, but I bet he would. Now would be a good time, with us all out of your hair. I know I've said it a million times and you're a stubborn bastard, but just call him. 
> 
> -Becky

Dean slipped the mail back in the slot and relocked it, trying not to notice his hands trembling. He dropped his own postcard in the garbage by the door, and dumped the windbreaker and cap on top of it. He walked back to the motel, a study in careful nonchalance even as his chest tightened until he couldn't breathe.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean was pretty sure he'd spent worse weeks in a haze of sex and drunkenness, but he couldn't actually think of any right now. Three different times he bought another postcard, and three different times he tore it in half and went for more Jack. 

The morning of the first day of spring quarter dawned clear and warm and welcoming. The call had never come.

Dean wrote, carefully and neatly, _You should have gone to the Grand Canyon._ He put a stamp on it, and dropped it in the mail in some town halfway to Portland.


	5. 26 and 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every important thing in Dean's life starts, "When Sam was X and I was Y." 
> 
> "When Sam was 6 months and I was 4, I carried him out of a fire and everything changed."
> 
> "When Sam was 6 and I was 10, I taught him how to ride a bike and bandage a cut."
> 
> "When Sam was 12 and I was 16, I taught him how to factor a polynomial and carried him from a ghoul hunt gone horribly wrong." 
> 
> "When Sam was 16 and I was 20, I let him fuck me for the first time and I thought everything would change, but nothing did."
> 
> "When Sam was 22 and I was 26, I carried him out of another fire and breathed again, for the first time in four years."
> 
> "When Sam was 25 and I was 29, he carried me."

They finally got to the Grand Canyon. 

Sam laid down on his belly to look over the edge, his head and one arm dangling down. There was a twisted, stubby pine growing out over the edge next to him, knotted and warped and hardly recognizable as a tree. It had none of that austere beauty Dean had recognized sometimes, in pictures of bonsai; instead, it just looked defeated by the constant stresses of wind and rock. Dean wondered vaguely whether it could ever grow straight again, if you replanted it now.

Geek-boy was talking excitedly about strata and erosion patterns and fossil evidence and Hualapai creation myths. All Dean could see was the curve of his ass under his jeans and the way the pervasive red dust stuck to the small of his back.

Sam rolled over, sitting up awkwardly and looking up at him. "What is it? I thought this was what you wanted. I mean, Dean, we finally got here-" 

The only thing to do, obviously, was to drop to the dirt and cover Sam's mouth with his own. Dean kissed him like they hadn't kissed in months, and the worry lines on Sam's face smoothed like magic. Dean finally broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Sam's and cupping the back of his neck roughly.

"Yeah. Yeah, we finally got here."   
\---------------------------------------------------------------

They spread out their sleeping bags that evening, while the vast emptiness beside them glowed gold and rose and dusky purple under the slanting sunlight. Sam shoved a rolled-up blanket under Dean's hips and covered Dean's body with his own, rocking gently and lacing their fingers together on the dirt above Dean's head. 

Sam gasped quietly as he entered Dean, mouthing at the back of his neck. His muscles quivered with the strain of maintaining that same slow, steady rocking, implacable even as Dean bucked back against him with needy noises. When Sam finally reached down to wrap his palm around Dean's cock and thumb the tip roughly, Dean felt his fingers scrabbling desperately at the scrubby grass and weeds. There were no sheets to fist his hands in, nothing to hang on to as he felt himself come apart and Sam's voice shook in his ear, "I've got you. It's okay, I've got you." 

Afterwards, Dean rolled onto his side and inspected the dry, pale dirt under his fingernails. Sam made a questioning noise, and Dean looked back at him.

"It really exists." 

"What, Dean, the Grand Canyon? Yeah, it does. Dork."

Not the Grand Canyon. The end of the war. The rest of their lives. What now?

The sun had set and the color show was gone. The canyon loomed next to him, an unimaginable, unfathomable blankness. They had spread out on perfectly flat ground 50 yards from any kind of drop, but still Dean felt a sudden, terrifying attack of vertigo and pressed his face into the sleeping bag. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to hold him against the dust, and Dean was just about to start berating himself for the stupidest, wussiest panic attack of all time when Sam rolled over with a grunt, threw one Sasquatch arm heavily across his back and buried his face against Dean's neck.  
\------------------------------------------------------------

They were taking one last long look the next morning when a dusty Winnebago rolled up. A couple got out, all dolled up in bright Hawaiian shirts and sunhats, the husband clutching a camera and guidebook. 

Dean got them arranged properly, flashed a bright, brittle smile and said, "Say cheese!" 

They hung around, ooh-ing and aah-ing as the brothers rolled up their sleeping bags. The guy, name of Richard, even offered them breakfast- scrambled eggs brought out from the tiny camper kitchen on bright blue plastic plates. They ate facing the edge, Richard and Barbara on little folding picnic chairs and Sam and Dean on their bedrolls. Barbara waved off their help with the dishes, so Dean sat there with Richard trying to orchestrate a friendly goodbye before the subject of grandkids came up. 

"It's just so far _down_ ," Richard exclaimed suddenly. 

Dean bit back a "Duh."

"I mean, it's so _deep_. How can anything go that far down? It's like looking down into the mouth of hell or something."

Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam go suddenly, frighteningly still. He didn't move again from his spot by the twisted pine until Dean and Richard did their goodbyes, handshakes, jokes about the romance of the open road. As the RV grumbled to life and pulled away, he finally spoke.

"Actually, it's not like that at all."


End file.
